It was about 1 PM on Wednesday, April 17, 2002, when I arrived at Scottsdale airport for a visit with my son Mark and his family.  A line man directed my rented Cessna 172 to parking, after a flight from Santa Monica and Blythe.  The Cessna had tail number 172EP (Two Echo Papa).  The line man waited for me to unload my baggage into his golf cart, for a somewhat unnecessary transfer to the Corporate Jets office, only about a hundred yards away.  Although the line man seemed not to be pressed, I hurried things up a bit.  At that moment, I’m fairly sure I violated the airplane’s shutdown procedure, leaving the Cessna’s master switch on as well as the ship’s beacon light.  I put on the parking brake because there were no tie-down cables in the ground.  I suppose there are no tie down cables at Corporate Jets because the big ships that normally use the facility are too heavy to be blown about.

I returned to the ship before dawn the next day, intending to watch the sun light up the desert floor as I started for Prescott.  I reached for the master switch to see if the fuel tanks had been topped off for the next flight leg.  The master switch was on; so was the beacon switch.   The battery was quite dead.  Now, the Cessna had been moved by the line crew during the night.  Since I’d applied the parking brake, I reasoned that a line crew person had found it necessary to get inside the cockpit to release the brakes, and at that point had turned on the master switch and beacon.  I told Corporate Jets that I was not responsible for leaving the master switch on.  Later I learned two things.  First, the head mechanic said that line crew people were not permitted to enter airplanes.  Second, the pilot’s handbook, perused while waiting for the battery to be recharged, told me that to use the parking brake, the foot brakes had to be depressed.  I was unaware of this since I rarely use parking brakes.  This meant that it would have been easy to move the ship with a tug, without entering the cockpit.  Thus, I became convinced that it was I who had run down the battery, and I accepted responsibility.  I remember leaving a master switch on once before with the 8-Ball Flying Club’s Cessna 182.  That ship had an external plug to supply battery power to start the engine.  Once the engine was running, the ship’s alternator would charge the battery fully, while flying.

Two Echo Papa lacked an external plug.  Thus, mild mannered Corporate Jets mechanic Martin had to use a quick charger hooked to the battery.  It’s possible that Martin somehow overheated wiring from the battery to the alternator, because several hours later, when another mechanic removed the Cessna’s alternator he found a melted wire leading to the alternator.  That second mechanic decided that chafing had led to a short and a melted wire, rather than the quick charge.

This was in the future when I lifted off Scottsdale about 9:30 AM and headed for Prescott.  About 20 minutes out I noticed the over-voltage light was on.  Heading north, the sun shone full on the instrument panel and I had to look closely to see that it was really on.  I noticed also that the ammeter showed a steady, small discharge.  At this point I retrieved the pilot’s handbook from the glove compartment and read the section on the over-voltage light.  I did the prescribed cycling of the master switch, then each side of the switch, but could not reset the light to off.   If cycling the switch did not result in a reset, the handbook said that an alternator failure had occurred and landing was to be as soon as possible.  Battery power was to be conserved by turning off all lights and the battery switch.  The battery switch was to be turned on only to make necessary transmissions.  I called the Phoenix air traffic controller who had me on radar and announced the need to return to Scottsdale.  I started back.  The controller first asked if I wanted to declare an emergency, but I declined.

I could still hear the Phoenix controller, but with my less powerful transmitter, he soon couldn’t hear me. The controller told me that Deer Valley airport lay between my position and the Scottsdale airport.  The controller assumed that I was familiar with the area.  Instead of giving me a vector, or compass heading that would take me to Deer Valley, the controller directed me to find freeway 17 off my right wing, and follow it to the Deer Valley airport.   I could see no freeway, let alone the one he mentioned.

Then the air traffic controller could no longer track my transponder, and he asked me to make a turn for identification by skin tracking. About that time, I lost all electrical power.  All radios, lights, and gyro instruments were inoperative.  I blundered on towards the Scottsdale airport by magnetic compass.  What looked like an airstrip appeared below, with individual hangers and homes nearby, a classic air park.   However, there were no airport markers.  I went on.  

Suddenly a real airport appeared on my left.  No mistake, because there was a light plane taking off.  My transponder was set to the 7600 code for loss in communications, and I radioed my presence and intention to land, just in case it could be picked up.  I entered the pattern on a left base, having carefully looked for other landing airplanes.  My landing was ragged, from nervousness, but as the ship slowed to taxi speed I knew that I was safe.  I still didn’t know what airport I had come down to, and never found out until after I’d left the airplane and saw a small sign saying "Phoenix Deer Valley".

I went into Cutter Aviation, used their telephone to call the Deer Valley control tower.  I identified myself as the pilot who had barged into the pattern and had landed without a radioed clearance.  The tower said they had gotten a call from the Phoenix air traffic controller, and were expecting my arrival. Even better, another ship had reported seeing me enter the pattern.  So now I had to concentrate on getting the Cessna repaired.  Cutter Aviation kindly took on the job, disrupting their schedule.  After many tries I found a pay phone that I could work in a nearby restaurant.  I called my wife Gordon to say that I was still in Phoenix, with engine trouble.  I would not be home until very late, or the next day.  

I stood by as Cutter’s slim mustachioed mechanic Rod went about finding what had failed, although we all assumed it was the alternator.  When the alternator came off, a wire connected to it fell away, quite burned through.  Rod surmised that the wire had chafed on a bulkhead, and shorting out, had melted.   Rod had ordered a replacement alternator from a shop on the field, although the original alternator had no visible signs of failure, such as a smoky casing.  After many iterations and tests, the voltage regulator was found to be inoperative.  When the regulator and burned wire had been replaced the airplane was fixed, and I could start home.  
It was about 4 PM.  Strong west winds blew between Phoenix and the Los Angeles basin.  I took off, climbed to 8500 feet and settled down to cruising into the strong head wind.  I seemed to be making slow progress.  The Colorado River, which crossed my path, was in view for perhaps 15 minutes.  As I approached the Coachella Valley , heading for the Palm Springs airport, the visibility became poor.  There was a haze in the valley and the declining sun was dead ahead.  I noticed with alarm that the fuel gauges were indicating close to empty.  I advised Palm Springs Approach radio of my fuel situation and requested a straight-in approach for a landing.  

Once more a controller asked if I was in emergency, and if I wanted radar vectors to an airport on the way to Palm Springs, now 25 miles away.  I replied that I had enough fuel for Palm Springs, provided that I could get a straight-in approach.  I also said that I could use help in navigation because of the poor visibility.  Once more I got directions couched in terms of roads with which I was not familiar.   I relied on compass headings and tracking the Palm Springs VOR, located some 4 miles to the west of the airport.

    The airport was now so near that the approach controller said I was on a right base for landing, and asked me to switch to Palm Springs control tower frequency.  The tower cleared me for landing and asked, "Is the field in sight?"  I replied "Not yet, but I’m looking."  Then came the instruction to turn right to the final leg.  I saw what looked like the field and started down.  The tower called again.  "You seem to be setting up for landing at the wrong place.  Look to your left for the airport."  There was the airport, quite clearly.  I was about midfield and about 200 feet above the ground.  I started a full power climbing turn to the left and straightened out on a close-in downwind leg.   Not far from the runway end I made a very steep right turn on to final, with the nose well down to maintain airspeed, checking the airspeed meter anxiously.  That maneuver, close to the ground, is dangerous, particularly if the pilot fixates on the ground without regard to airspeed and uses rudder to turn.     

    When I straightened out the ship was in a correct final approach path, but at about 100 knots, too fast for landing.  I slowed by cutting power and adding some flaps.  At this point the tower quite properly called me with a report on the wind.  It was at runway heading, 20 knots gusting to 30.  Runway 31 left stretched out ahead, a full 10,000 feet long.   I eased down, but touched down going too fast, and the ship ballooned off the runway.  With thousands of feet of runway still ahead I opened the throttle, leveled off for another try.  Still too fast, and another bounce.  I heard a controller’s voice in the background, "God save us."   The third try, at a reduced airspeed was successful, but not particularly elegant.   It was after 7 PM, I was down safely again, and I headed for a hotel room for the night.

    The next day’s hop to the Santa Monica airport was a pure delight.  I left the ground about 7 AM.  The wind was light, a bit bumpy in Banning Pass.  A brilliant sun shone off the rocks of San Jacinto Mountain, as I was routed along a road at the mountain’s base.  Approaching Los Angeles above El Monte, the same bright sunshine shone on the downtown towers, and the entire basin.  I was further rewarded with one of the best landings I’ve ever made.